This morning began with the alarm clock – I
promised my wife
I’d be out of bed by 7:00. By 8:00 I’d put gas in the minivan, bought
coffee
and picked up a relatively new employee to join us on the way to New York. When I pumped the gas I noticed how cold it was out.
By the time we were passing Armonk, New York, I’d
taken off
my light jacket and noticed that the climate control fan was running a
bit
fast. So fast it was making a racket. Wonder of wonders, I had to turn
on the
air conditioning so the damn thing would slow down a bit. They say
it’s more
efficient than opening the windows and placing drag on the vehicle (but
I’ll
admit that I like air conditioned air).
We picked up our final passenger at his apartment
building
on the East Side by 11:30. Our destination was Panang, a wonderful
Malaysian restaurant on 2nd just south of 83rd
Street. Sure enough, a metered space was available. It ate six quarters
(for a
paltry hour’s time).
The particular blocks on 2nd Avenue
right around the
lower 80s are chock-full of restaurants; all of them open at 11:30, except
Panang. There was a fellow inside mopping the floor and he motioned to
us all
ten fingers and then two; they opened at 12:00. Not very competitive if
you ask
me. You see, the problem was, I’d had two cups of coffee on the two
hour drive
from West Hartford, and man, to put it delicately, I was floating.
Ready
to burst. Had it not been that we were on an Avenue, I might’ve tried
to ditch
into an alleyway and relieve myself. All I wanted of this beautiful,
sunny day
was some time to walk around, free of the, er, discomfort I felt, so
that I
could enjoy the outdoors to its fullest.
Well, I walked into one restaurant, a Chinese one,
and asked
politely (in Mandarin) where the bathroom is. They replied in English
“customer
only!” I told them I wasn’t hungry, but I needed to use a bathroom and
I’d be
glad to buy a soda… “Customer only!” I guess buying a soda doesn’t make
me a
customer. On the way out I took a take-out menu and wrote “shit-list”
on it.
The next place was a sharp-looking Italian spot.
“Are you
alone, sir?” The others were walking around outside, enjoying the
weather. I
responded in the affirmative and said that the others would be
following me
right away, and that I’d avail myself of the bathroom first. “Our
restrooms are
for customers only, sir.” What did I look like, anyway? I was wearing
pressed
slacks, a pressed shirt open at the collar, and a supple leather coat.
Perhaps
it was the ponytail that’d scared these two. Surely the place
next
door, a very glitzy Asian-Fusion spot would understand.
No luck. Not even with Mandarin. I was laughed out
of the
place, in fact, when I offered a $5 bill just to use the bathroom. Did
they
think I would use it to take a bath? Maybe they thought I’d
use it
to shoot up.
We passed a bar that was open. In I went, the
barkeep
asked me “what’ll ya have?” When I asked where the toilet was, he
pointed in
the direction of a corner of the room; workmen were tearing apart the
men’s
room and re: the ladies’ room, he
asserted that “the water’s shut off; you’ll have to wait.” I made a
note to
call the Health Department.
Finally, the witching hour arrived. Panang was
indeed open.
Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, I am free at last! I
made a
bee-line for the loo, whilst the other three were sat at the same back
table
we’d visited maybe three or four times, recently.
A pounding came at the door.
“Yes, just a moment please!” I tried to sound as
pleasant as
possible, given the circumstances.
More pounding.
“I’ll be finished in one minute!” Now I was
getting angry.
Finally, the pounding sounded more like explosions
in the
small room than a polite knock. Before I washed my hands, I unlocked
the door.
There stood a small fellow in a white shirt and tie. “Customers
only use
washroom!” His voice was screechy.
Out I walked and I tried to go around the corner
to our
table. My wife, our employee and our banker giggled but said nothing as
the
little fellow started to show me out of the restaurant!
I cried out to them “okay, c’mon, the joke’s
over!” They
giggled but said nothing. The man had put me out the front door and
mumbled
something in Maylay that I’m sure was off-color. I stood outside for a
moment,
enjoying the weather, and then realized that it was probably time to
put more
quarters in the meter. I’d show them, the dirty bastards. I walked past
Panang
again, looked inside, and nobody made an effort to get up. Soon I was
once
again met with the angry glare of the boss’s face.
That was it. Yet another bar had opened for
business. I
plodded in, sat down, and ordered a Campari and soda. I was sipping
away when
the barkeep said, “That’ll be $8.”
My wife had my coat; in my coat was my wallet. All
I had on
me was about $2.00 worth of change. I tried to explain to this guy what
was
going on, and he wouldn’t hear it. He took the drink away from me, and
said
“now ya just get outta here and don’tcha come back!”
The thought crossed my mind to find a cop and put
an end to
this nonsense, at least by retrieving my coat. I had the car keys, and
could’ve
driven away in the minivan and spent some quality time alone parked
along the
river, or in Central Park.
Upon my return to Panang, the gig was up. The boss
was
extremely apologetic and wondered why my wife and friends would play
such a
trick on me. I responded by asking him why he’d jump the gun so fast
and assume
I wasn’t a customer, and pound on the bathroom door. His face turned
bright red
and he told me “they gave me $10 to do it; I am so very sorry sir.” I
responded, “not as sorry as I am.” I ordered a Tanqueray martini, up
with
onions, this time.
(Oh, by the way, the meal was fine, as usual. And
I went
back and paid the bartender the $8 and guaranteed him a bad writeup in The
New York Times. I think he believed it because the other three
joined me
whilst I paid up.)